40 Years of Sugar Surfing

What the Waves Taught Me

I was nineteen when they told me the number was seven-point-five. High but I was young and I laughed it off.

Doctor handed me a diet sheet. White paper, tiny print, lists longer than my patience. I folded it into the glovebox and forgot it was there,

A few years rolled by and my sugar climbed, thirst came back with a vengeance. I remember the night I drank three litres of water and still woke up dry and dying of thirst.

Back at the clinic: “Metformin,” he said. Small pill, twice a day.

It worked—for a season then the dose doubled, tripled, until I swallowed the max without blinking.

Next came Glyburide, again the staircase: low, mid, high, max and still, the tide rose higher. Eventually the doctor looked straight at me.

“You’re out of pills. Time for insulin.”

I heard needles for life and having a fear of needles made it much worse.

I nodded like I was brave but first injection shook my hand. I counted to three and inserted the needle and hit a nerve I swore, then did tried again.

Now it’s muscle memory. Pinch, slide, breathe. Forty years later, I still prick, still jab, still check.

The board looks different: cracked, patched, longer.

But it floats.

Lesson?

Take the diagnosis seriously the first time if you don’t, every wave you ride is the one you could’ve avoided.